


This Side of the Grave

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [28]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Dragon Riders, Gen, Horror, Suspense, Witchcraft, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26174650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: The dead are prowling the streets of Paris, which can only be the work of a necromancer. Can the Musketeers find and stop them before they end up in their own graves?
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 48
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

D'Artagnan strode through the darkened streets of Paris at a hastened pace. He'd stayed longer at the tavern than he'd intended and was now going to be late getting home to Constance. He tried not to make a habit of that, knowing she was inclined to worry. And despite the fun he had going out with his friends, there were many nights when he definitely preferred the company of his wife.

But Porthos had cajoled him into a card game since no one else in the tavern was playing, and Aramis had bowed out not long after that, leaving d'Artagnan to keep their large friend entertained until some other players arrived. Only then was d'Artagnan able to pull himself away with a sharp warning at Porthos to behave himself.

He turned down a dark stretch of cobblestone, the two fire baskets bookending the street too far apart to penetrate the inky shadows. There was no one else about, so when d'Artagnan heard the faint scuff behind him, he pulled up short and looked over his shoulder. The night was too thick with no moon to see anything. He waited a beat. There was a soft shuffling. Maybe it was an animal…he gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of rats.

Shaking himself out of his paranoia, he turned and started toward home again, only to be immediately tackled from behind. He pitched forward face first onto the cobblestone, grunting as the impact jarred his bones. A heavy weight was sitting on top of him and cold, clammy hands closed around his throat. A rancid odor like rotting meat hit his nostrils before the sensation of being choked did.

D'Artagnan thrashed and bucked, trying to throw his attacker off. He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck and threw his head back, ramming his skull into his assailant's face. The force finally dislodged him and d'Artagnan squirmed to get out from underneath him, whipping out his sword as he scrambled to his feet. He spun, swinging his blade in a wide arc that snagged on fabric and flesh. There was a grunt, but it was too dark for d'Artagnan to see how badly he'd wounded the other person.

A dark shape lurched toward him and he swiped his sword again. This time he felt his blade cut deeper and the attacker stumbled. But then the figure straightened and just kept coming at him. The man didn't even have a sword or other weapon that d'Artagnan could discern, and his relentless attack made d'Artagnan stumble backward in dismay.

He jabbed at his assailant's leg, hoping to wound him enough to stop the assault; he didn't want to kill an unarmed man. But just like the other blows, it didn't seem to faze him at all. Growing desperate, d'Artagnan raised his arm to strike again, but this time the other man caught his wrist in a vise-like grip and drove him back into the wall. Pain reverberated down his spine, and that hot breath was billowing into his face now.

D'Artagnan reacted, drawing his main gauche with his left hand and thrusting it up into his attacker's chest, right through the heart. There was a moment where everything seemed suspended, where d'Artagnan wondered if he'd missed.

But then the hand clenched around his wrist loosened and fell away, and the man dropped without a sound. D'Artagnan stood there, sagged against the wall trying to catch his breath, and waited to see if the figure would get up again. He didn't.

D'Artagnan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and inched around the body to grab a torch from by the fire basket just a few feet away. When he brought it back, he kicked the dead man's body over onto his back…and nearly gagged at the putrid sight of leprous flesh and lesions.

D'Artagnan staggered back a step, then stiffened. With a horrific thought, he dropped the torch and started wiping furiously at his throat and face. Then he stared in mounting terror at his hands and tried to brush them off on his clothes, which he realized were just as contaminated from grappling with his attacker.

Bile rose in the back of his throat. Oh God, what had he just been exposed to…?

.o.0.o.

Athos sat at his desk with a cup of wine and open book, reading by candlelight. With all the paperwork that came with being captain, it was harder to find time for leisurely reading, and he'd come to appreciate it more when he did engage in it.

A harsh rap sounded at his door and he frowned. That sounded less like a knock and more like a kick. It came again, followed by a muffled voice.

"Athos."

Brow furrowing, he rose from his seat and went to open it. D'Artagnan was standing outside, hands tucked up under his armpits. He looked pale, even in the wan light emanating from the interior, and couldn't seem to stand still.

"What's wrong?" Athos immediately asked, reaching out to clasp his shoulder and still him.

D'Artagnan jerked back. "Don't touch me." He gave himself a sharp shake. "Sorry, I- I might be contagious. I don't know what to do. I can't go home to Constance but she'll be worried sick…"

"Slow down," Athos interjected sharply. "And start from the beginning." He tried to keep his tone measured even though the word "contagious" had set off alarm bells.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard. "I was attacked on my way home tonight. I killed the man, but he…he looked diseased. And we wrestled when he tried to choke me… What if it's leprosy? Oh God…"

Athos's heart skipped a beat at that, but years of maintaining a stoic exterior kept him calm and professional. "Where's the body?"

"I called the night watchmen to take him to the morgue."

Athos nodded and stepped out onto the landing. "I'll send for Doctor Lemay. He should be able to confirm what ailment it is."

D'Artagnan bobbed his head shakily. "Right. Okay."

Athos headed down the steps and waved over one of the musketeers on night watch. "Fetch Doctor Lemay here," he said. "Tell him it's important."

The man nodded and made a quick exit out of the garrison toward the palace.

Athos turned back to d'Artagnan, who was rubbing at his neck almost compulsively. "Were you injured?"

D'Artagnan shook his head and abruptly stopped his fidgeting. "He came out of nowhere, attacked me from behind. And he didn't stop, not even after I wounded him several times."

Athos's mouth thinned. Had the man been mad as well as diseased? D'Artagnan's eyes widened as though he'd suddenly wondered the same thing.

"Oh God, Constance…"

"While we're waiting for Lemay, I'll go tell her what happened," Athos said.

"No! I mean, don't tell her the details."

Athos nodded. "I won't tell her anything we don't already know for certain. Why don't you go back up to my office."

"I don't want to touch anything…" d'Artagnan hedged.

Athos pulled his handkerchief from his coat and held it out. D'Artagnan accepted it with a grateful nod, then headed back upstairs. Athos watched him go before turning to head next door to the dragon compound.

There was a light emanating from within the Bonacieux house, and Athos figured d'Artagnan had been right about Constance waiting up for him. He knocked on the door.

A moment later it opened up to reveal Constance, a shawl draped over her shoulders. Her face blanched at seeing him.

"Athos," she breathed. "Is it d'Artagnan?"

"Yes- no." He held up a hand to try to ward off her spiraling into a panic. "There was an incident, an attempted mugging. D'Artagnan's unhurt, but I'm afraid he won't be home for a bit while we deal with the situation."

Constance sagged in relief, then frowned. "He couldn't come tell me but you were able to?" she said doubtfully.

"I don't have to do the grunt work anymore," Athos replied smoothly. "But a stop next door as a favor to a friend is hardly an inconvenience."

It wasn't untrue but it felt like he was lying through his teeth.

"Go on to bed, Constance," he said kindly.

She nodded slowly. "Alright. Thank you, Athos."

He let out a heavy breath after she closed the door, then returned to the garrison.

Despite the late hour, Lemay was sympathetic to d'Artagnan's concern about potentially being exposed to leprosy and immediately agreed to a consultation.

Poupart, the man in charge of the morgue, however, was less pleased about being rousted from his bed. He grumbled under his breath as he unlocked the cold storage cellar so the night watchmen could carry the body down. It'd been wrapped securely in tarpaulin so no one else would risk coming into contact with it, and once it'd been set on an empty slab, Poupart merely cut through the shroud to remove it. He paused as the man was revealed, but then stepped back as Lemay moved in to make his examination.

The doctor had donned tight fitting gloves but also used a spare piece of cloth to actually touch and manipulate the body. Athos grimaced at the grotesque sight. Dear God, if d'Artagnan had been exposed to leprosy…

He glanced at the young Gascon, who stood several feet back from the rest of them, hugging his arms as though to make himself as small as possible and avoid accidentally touching anyone or anything. Athos wished he could offer a reassuring touch of comfort, but until they knew for sure what they were dealing with, he had to keep his distance.

Lemay's brow was furrowed in perplexity as he looked over the corpse from head to toe. He even paused and leaned down to sniff it, which made Athos grimace in disgust.

"This isn't leprosy," he finally said, though he sounded confused rather than relieved. "It's decay."

D'Artagnan made a choking sound in the back. "Rotting flesh? Is _that_ contagious?"

Lemay shook his head, seeming at a loss. "Are you sure you killed him this night and not a few nights ago?"

D'Artagnan scowled. "You think I'd wait so long to report something like this?" he said testily.

"Why do you ask?" Athos put in.

Lemay straightened and took a step back. "Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say this fellow's been dead a week already."

Athos frowned. "Is it contagious?"

"The dead part? No."

Athos held back an irritated huff. "Whatever condition caused this," he said, gesturing to the body.

Lemay merely shrugged. "I know of no condition that looks like this. It's not just the necrosis of tissues…" He trailed off and went over to the work station to pick up a scalpel, then came back and ran the blade along the forearm. "No blood. Because it's all coagulated. It's too soon for that if d'Artagnan truly did kill him only a couple of hours ago."

Athos frowned and turned to the young man. There was no reason for d'Artagnan to have delayed reporting the incident—could he have lost time? Been knocked out for a bit?

D'Artagnan's face was scrunched up in distress, but after a moment his eyes widened and he pulled out his main gauche to stare at the blade. "No blood," he said in a hoarse voice. "I stabbed him in the heart and there's no blood…"

Athos turned back to Lemay. "What do you make of this?"

"I really have no idea. It defies all laws of medicine, but this man appears to have died several days ago, not tonight."

"That's because he did," Poupart spoke up. He'd gone to a back chamber but now re-emerged with an open ledger in his hands. "That body was on my slab six days ago."

There was a moment of stunned silence among them.

"That's impossible," d'Artagnan said.

Poupart pointed to a note in his book. "Identifying marks: a mole under his chin and a triangular birthmark on his right shoulder. Cause of death was a stab wound to the side."

Lemay went back to the body and checked all three places, then nodded. "Every one is a match."

"Are you sure he was dead?" Athos asked.

Poupart shot him an irritated glower and slammed his ledger closed. "I'm sure. And as your doctor confirmed, he's been dead for days."

Athos did not like where this was going. "What was done with his remains?"

Poupart huffed and reopened his log book again. "He was buried in Potter's Field."

"Show us."

"Can it wait till morning?" the investigator scowled.

"A man who is supposed to have died days ago and was in your morgue attacked a musketeer tonight," Athos replied tersely. "We need to know for sure this is that man. Now."

Poupart groused under his breath but nevertheless took the three of them out to Potter's Field, which was only a few blocks from the morgue. Armed with lanterns, they trekked through the massive cemetery until Poupart finally drew to a stop and pointed to a grave.

Athos crouched down and held the light over the ground. His stomach tightened. "The soil's been disturbed recently."

Swallowing back nausea, Athos plunged his gloved hand into the dirt and began sifting it away until he came across splintered pieces of wood that could only belong to a coffin.

He rocked back on his heels and stood. "We'd have to bring shovels out here to be sure, but I don't think there's anyone in this grave."

"What does that mean?" d'Artagnan asked nervously.

"It means you don't have to worry about having caught leprosy," Lemay said.

"No," Athos agreed. "Someone raised the dead."


	2. Chapter 2

"Necromancy," Rochefort declared in that grave, gravelly tone as they all stood before the King and Queen. "A most vile dark art."

Louis and Anne shifted on their thrones, looking as disturbed as everyone else in the room likely felt. D'Artagnan was of course relieved he wasn't going to develop a horrendous, disfiguring disease, but the idea that a corpse had crawled up out of its grave and attacked him also made his gut twist with sickening nausea.

"I trust you can track down this heinous person," Louis said to Rochefort.

"I will see it done, Your Majesty," the witch hunter replied. With a respectful bow, he turned and departed.

The rest of the room was more or less dismissed as Louis and Anne began to confer quietly together. D'Artagnan followed his fellow musketeers out.

"We'll proceed with our own investigation," Athos said once they were out in the hall.

"An' how exactly are we supposed to do that?" Porthos asked.

"We might start by asking whether d'Artagnan was a victim of opportunity for this necromancer's reanimated puppet, or whether he was targeted," Aramis put in.

D'Artagnan stiffened at that notion. He hadn't even considered it. Three sets of eyes turned to him and he shifted uncomfortably. "I have my share of enemies, but no more than the rest of you, and most of them we share."

"That's true," Porthos agreed.

"It might have been chance. Potter's Field is not too far from where d'Artagnan was attacked," Athos said. "Still, you shouldn't go anywhere alone."

"Should anyone?" he countered.

Another worrying thought struck him then. "What about Constance and Jean? Should I not go home?"

"Actually, the garrison and compound would be the safest places for you," Aramis replied. "The dragons won't let anything happen to you or them."

That was true, and d'Artagnan felt better. "So what should we do in the meantime?"

Athos's expression looked grim. "It won't be a pleasant task, but we should search Potter's Field for more disturbed graves."

"And set a watch tonight in case more rise again," Aramis added.

Porthos snorted. "Yeah, I ain't it."

Athos just gave him a look which made Porthos grumble under his breath unhappily.

"It ain't right," he muttered as he started to stalk away. "Dead risin' up out o' their graves."

The others exchanged serious looks. No, it wasn't. And they needed to put a stop to it as soon as possible.

.o.0.o.

Ayelet sat in the middle of the yard, watching Falkor as he lay in the sun on the opposite end of the compound from the dragon dens. He seemed to prefer not only solitude, but distance. He rarely stayed in the den the Bonacieuxs had given him, and he never communicated with any of the other dragons in the compound. He was an enigma. After being imprisoned for years, Ayelet would think he'd be desperate for companionship. Maybe he'd forgotten how.

She stood up and went over to where a ball of twine was sitting and then kicked it over to Falkor. The ball knocked lightly against his side and rolled backward a few inches, but he didn't move.

Ayelet moved closer and nudged the ball with her nose, pushing it toward him again. He merely ignored her.

She scrunched her face up in consternation. Okay then… She turned and made her way over to one of the storerooms. A glance around the compound showed no one was about. She reached a claw up to hook over the handle and pushed down. The door mechanism snicked and she pushed her way inside. She couldn't fit her whole body into the room, but fortunately the salted meat chunks were kept on the shelf _just_ within reach…

She stretched her neck as far as she could and snagged the bag with her teeth, careful not to bite too hard and tear through the sackcloth. With her catch in her grasp, she backed out of the storeroom, making sure to snag the handle with her claw and pull the door shut behind her so the humans wouldn't suspect anything. Then she sauntered back over to Falkor and dropped the sack in front of him with a proud grin. He eyed the offering blandly and still didn't move.

Disheartened, Ayelet plopped down there on the ground across from him and just laid there forlornly. What was it about her that made it so hard for other dragons to like her? Or, well, that wasn't necessarily true. Savron and Vrita liked her just fine, and she didn't have any problems with the other Musketeer dragons in the garrison. Some of them could be a bit pushy, but Vrita usually stepped in to get them to back off. Rhaego tolerated her now. Mostly.

She sighed heavily, blowing puffs of dust up into Falkor's face. She stiffened and immediately apologized.

The older dragon finally lifted his head and gazed down at her in consideration. She didn't dare move, since this was the most engagement she'd gotten out of him since the day he'd come barreling out of the woods and she'd leaped into his path.

He stared for a long, intimidating moment before asking why she was being so persistent and wouldn't just leave him alone.

She replied that he seemed sad and she wanted to make him feel better.

He huffed and laid his head down again, saying there was nothing that could be done for that.

She raised hers off the ground and asked why not.

He let out a soft snort. She was young and naive, he said.

Ayelet knew he meant that as a bad thing, but they weren't necessarily untrue. She was young, she knew that. And naive, well, maybe she hadn't had much life experience yet but she was a Musketeer dragon, a warrior! She had plenty to offer.

She didn't say any of that of course, not wanting to appear petulant and… _young_.

So she just continued to lie there, not doing or saying anything.

After several more moments, Falkor looked at the sack of meat she'd brought and then shifted to stick his nose in the bag and begin munching them down.

Ayelet ducked her head to hide her pleased smile.

He'd just finished gobbling up the morsels when Jean came outside, the sound of the door shutting resounding loudly in the yard. Ayelet looked over her shoulder, and when Jean spotted her, he started to make his way over. Falkor immediately stood up and shuffled away.

Ayelet watched him go, her heart sinking with disappointment.

Jean came over and patted her on the side of her neck. "Sorry for interrupting," he said. "Seems you're slowly making progress with our guest."

She sighed. She was trying, and today had certainly been progress. Falkor had actually talked to her!

Jean patted her fondly again. "You have a good heart."

She beamed.

But then his gaze dropped to the sack on the ground and he bent down to pick it up. He turned it over, then sniffed the inside. Ayelet winced as he threw a sharp glare her way.

"So this is you?" he demanded.

She quirked her expression guiltily.

Jean shook the empty sack at her. "I commend your efforts with Falkor, but do it again and I'm going to start docking it from your breakfast."

Ayelet made an indignant sort of gurgle and ducked her head sheepishly. Jean gave her another pat before walking away.

Well, it was worth it.

And next time she'd have to figure out how to get the meat out but leave the sack behind…

.o.0.o.

Porthos paced the edge of Potter's Field where he, Aramis, and their dragons were taking first watch for the night, waiting to see if more dead would rise. A search of the cemetery that afternoon hadn't turned up any other disturbed graves, which was good, of course, though that only made Porthos more antsy about a lively one coming up while they were out here.

"Game of cards?" Aramis asked.

Porthos whirled on him. "How can you think of playin' at a time like this? Some poor dead soul could be torn from his restin' place any minute."

"The soul is already departed," Aramis replied. "Thank God." He crossed himself. "It's the mortal shell being desecrated."

"An' that makes it better?"

"No, but we can take comfort that the poor man's soul is secure in Heaven." Aramis canted his head. "Or Hell, as the case may be."

Porthos rolled his eyes and resumed his pacing.

"I only suggested it so you would stop stomping all over these poor souls' graves and disrupting their rest."

Porthos shot him a baleful glower. "That ain't funny."

Aramis sighed and pushed away from the tree he'd been leaning against. Yanking out one of the torches they had staked in the ground, he headed off down one of the lanes.

"Where're you goin'?" Porthos asked in alarm.

"To do a sweep of the area," he replied. "Make sure we haven't missed anything. And to make sure our corpse from the other night has stayed put since reburial."

Porthos grimaced in displeasure. "Well, go wit' him," he snapped at Rhaego.

The russet dragon pinched his brow but set off after his obstinate rider, hobbling over and around grave markers as he went.

Porthos kept pacing. Vrita watched him from where she sat, eyes tracking his every turn.

"I'm not overreactin'," he said huffily.

She shook her head.

"Dead things shouldn't be able to get up and walk around."

She switched to nodding.

Porthos finally ceased his pacing and sighed. He walked over to his dragon and leaned his shoulder against hers. He really didn't have anything to worry about with Vrita watching his back. It was just…this kind of stuff _shouldn't_ happen.

A head of torchlight bobbing in the dark announced Aramis's return. Porthos figured it was Aramis, but he put a hand on his sword anyway until he also caught the gleam of Rhaego's eyes.

"Anythin'?" he asked gruffly.

"Nothing's stirred," Aramis replied. "And our previous zombie is still in his grave."

"Maybe it was jus' the one time," Porthos speculated.

"We can hope, though I would like to know for certain whether d'Artagnan was an intended victim or not."

Yeah, there was that.

Aramis went back to his place at the tree and the night waxed on. They weren't set to be relieved for another few hours.

Porthos fidgeted with the urge to pace again but managed to keep himself in check. Instead he tried to focus on the sounds of the night—the crickets out in the overgrown reeds, the hoot of an owl. The snuffling in the grass, though, that made his pulse spike and he'd whip his gaze around the outer reach of their firelight in search of a lumbering shadow coming at them.

But nothing happened.

Despite Aramis's previous cavalier attitude, Porthos could tell he was on edge too.

Suddenly Vrita perked up, lifting her head and gazing out into the distance. Rhaego did the same. Both Porthos and Aramis tensed, forced to rely on their dragons' keener senses to let them know what had gotten their attention. Then Vrita stood and tossed her head toward her back. Porthos wasted no time swinging up in the saddle, Aramis on Rhaego, and the dragons flapped their wings to take flight.

They stayed low as they swept over the graveyard, but they didn't stop in the field and instead kept going into the city. A few moments later, Porthos heard a pained cry echo through the streets. Vrita and Rhaego veered sharply toward it. Around the next corner was a sight that chilled Porthos to the bone—two pale figures in rags attacking a pair of musketeers. One was already on the ground not moving and the second was pinned against a wall, his sword stuck clean through the zombie's stomach and out the other side. But that wasn't stopping the monstrous thing from bearing down on Colbert.

Vrita swooped in behind them and snatched the walking corpse up in her jaws, flinging him away from Colbert. The musketeer sagged to the ground, clutching at his bleeding shoulder.

There wasn't room for both Vrita and Rhaego in the street, so Aramis leaped the five feet from his hovering dragon to hit the ground and rush to the other fallen musketeer's side. The second zombie turned toward him but Rhaego slapped it away with his claws so it fell in a heap next to the first.

Porthos swung out of the saddle and hurried to Colbert. A moment later, Aramis was by their side.

"Victor?" Colbert gritted out.

Aramis shook his head regretfully.

"Dammit," Colbert hissed through pained breaths.

Porthos clenched his jaw in response. Victor was a recent recruit. He shouldn't have gone out like this.

"They- came out of- nowhere," Colbert panted heavily. "Wouldn't- go down."

Porthos snapped his gaze back to where Vrita and Rhaego were spitting and batting at the zombies that just kept staggering to their feet no matter how many gouges the dragons put in them. There was no blood, though; there was no life in them to bleed.

Porthos drew his schiavona and stormed toward them. With a silent prayer of apology to whomever deserved it, he swung his blade one way and then the other, decapitating the corpses. After that, they finally stayed down.

Porthos turned back and met Aramis's grim expression. It looked like this was far from over after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Rochefort stood off to the side of the Council room as the musketeers delivered their report to the King of the attack that happened last night. It was disconcerting that two more dead had risen from their graves, though Rochefort wasn't exactly weeping over the Musketeer casualty.

"These bodies didn't come from Potter's Field," Aramis was saying. "Porthos and I were on watch since sundown and neither of our dragons detected any disturbances."

"We checked the cemetery at first light," Athos put in. "Just to be sure. The bodies came from somewhere else. Unfortunately, there are too many small graveyards throughout the city to cover them all."

Louis looked distraught. "Then what is to be done?"

"So far these attacks have been against musketeers," Treville spoke up.

"You think they are the targets," Louis said.

"It seems that way."

"An attack against the King's Men is an attack against the King himself," Rochefort interjected loudly, drawing all eyes in the room to him. "Whoever is behind this is trying to weaken His Majesty, make him vulnerable."

Louis's eyes widened a fraction. "You think they will attack here next?"

"I won't let it come to that, Sire," Rochefort vowed.

"And what progress have you made in tracking down this necromancer?" Treville asked pointedly.

Rochefort's jaw ticked. In truth, he wasn't making any progress. "My witch tracker has been acting…confused," he admitted.

He didn't understand why; necromancy was a dark art that shook the very foundation of the natural order and should be easy for his instrument to detect. But the needles just spun in random directions, as though the entire city was engulfed in one large bubble of dark forces.

"But I have other methods for tracking magic," he quickly assured the King.

Louis fixed him with a firm look. "Do not let me down, Rochefort." He then turned back to his musketeers and Minister Treville. "In case Rochefort is right about the necromancer's intentions, I want the guard at the palace doubled."

"I'll send extra dragons," Athos replied.

Louis nodded, but then his expression pinched. "This string of rampant witchcraft in the city is most troubling. What if it signals that only more will come? I cannot run this country and face down magical attacks on my doorstep at every turn."

"It may be that these heathens are testing your boundaries," Treville said. "But we will deal with each threat as it comes, just as we would any act against the Crown."

Louis exhaled heavily and nodded. "Of course, you're right." He looked around at his musketeers. "You have always defended me against insurmountable odds. I know you will continue to do so."

Rochefort stood there, ignored or forgotten, inwardly fuming. _He_ was the witch hunter here, and yet Louis still turned to his favored musketeers for support and counsel.

Rochefort spun on his heel and slipped out of the room, unnoticed. He needed to find this necromancer if he was going to secure the King's trust so _he_ could become Louis's confidante, not those blasted musketeers.

He was a veritable storm sweeping through the palace, a cyclone of seething fury gyrating inside him. Yet the moment he rounded the corner and almost ran into the Queen, all of that bluster was cut off like the sun lancing its radiant sword through the clouds.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he gushed. "I should not have been in such a hurry."

"I understand why you would be," she replied with a dazzling smile, though her expression quickly sobered. "These attacks are horrible."

Rochefort automatically took a step closer and almost reached for her hand, though a glimpse of her ladies-in-waiting a few paces behind her stopped him. "I won't let anything happen to you," he promised earnestly and was rewarded with another resplendent smile.

"I am comforted by your bravery and loyalty, Rochefort," she replied. "But it is the Musketeers I am worried about. I know they have been the victims in these attacks and that one of them was killed last night."

All of Rochefort's beaming joy snuffed out in that moment and he clenched his jaw.

"Of course," he managed to ground out and retreated a step. "If you will excuse me, Your Majesty, I have a necromancer to find."

"Yes, of course," she said, and he quickly moved past her.

Damn those musketeers! Their loyalty to the King and Queen was legendary, but he'd never counted on it being returned to this degree. Something needed to be done, immediately.

He strode from the palace and made his way to the dragon compound to retrieve Falkor. His dragon was lounging in the sun, lazying the days away while Rochefort worked nonstop trying to win the affections of the King.

"Get up," he said brusquely. "We have work to do."

Falkor lolled one eye up at him and then stiffly rose to his feet.

"There is a necromancer in the city," Rochefort informed him. "My instruments aren't working. I need you to track the combined stench of death and magic."

His dragon dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Rochefort spotted the dragon keeper's daughter walking across the yard and snapped, "You, fetch a saddle for my dragon!"

She pulled up short in seeming surprise and hesitated. Yet before Rochefort could go over and reprimand her for being slow, she turned toward one of the storerooms. She returned a few moments later with a saddle and proceeded to fit it on Falkor, her movements surprisingly efficient albeit taut. When she was finished, Rochefort pushed her out of the way so he could mount up.

"Going somewhere?"

He flashed an irritated glower at Athos as he and his blue silverback walked into the compound. "I am going to hunt down the necromancer," Rochefort replied haughtily.

Athos merely nodded and turned to swing up onto his dragon. "Then let's go."

"As captain, shouldn't you be overseeing the guard duty at the palace?" he said snidely.

"As captain, I hand out assignments as I see fit. And I see fit to _assist_ you on this very important task for the King."

Rochefort gritted his teeth again. At this rate, he was likely to crack a tooth. He was in no position to refuse, however, not when his stance with the King was still precarious. He'd have to endure Athos's presence and still find a way to be the one that took the credit when they eventually found the necromancer.

"Fine," he bit out, nudging his dragon to take flight.

.o.0.o.

Athos would have preferred being anywhere else but as far as he was concerned, Rochefort needed supervision. He was also, regrettably, the only one among them who had any experience tracking down witches, sorcerers, necromancers, and the like. Athos was curious what his other methods were given his compass tracker wasn't working.

Rochefort and his dragon flew to Potter's Field and landed at the site of the first disturbed grave.

"The body hasn't risen again," Athos pointed out.

"I'm aware," Rochefort replied tersely. He didn't dismount to take a look, but instead remained seated in the saddle as his dragon took its time sniffing around the dirt.

"I was under the impression a necromancer can work from a distance," Athos said. "There's a slim chance they were ever physically here."

"But their magic was, and their magic reeks of death," Rochefort answered. "It's a distinctive scent a dragon can track."

Athos arched a brow at that information. He should have brought Rhaego. He leaned close to Savron's head and lowered his voice. "Can you get that scent?"

His dragon casually moved around to the other side of the grave and proceeded to sniff the area as well. Athos wondered if dragons could naturally smell magic, and if so, why they weren't used more often in hunting witches. Maybe it required special training, and since witchcraft wasn't tolerated in any measure, it would be difficult to expose dragons to it. Sometimes he wished he could speak in words with his friend. There was so much Savron could tell him if only dragons were capable of the same speech as humans.

After several moments, Falkor raised his head first, and Rochefort signaled for him to take off before Savron had even finished.

Athos scowled and nudged Savron into following. They couldn't let Rochefort try to give them the slip. He just hoped Falkor actually had a trace on who they were looking for.

.o.0.o.

Aramis exited the garrison infirmary after checking on Colbert and spotted Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Constance over at the table underneath the captain's balcony. Constance had a wicker basket and was setting some food out, so he made his way over.

"Just in time," she said, passing him a bread roll.

"Constance brought us dinner," d'Artagnan beamed.

Aramis tipped his hat in thanks and took a seat on the bench next to Porthos, who was already digging in. "Any word from Athos?"

"No," d'Artagnan replied glumly.

Aramis tore a piece of bread off and put it in his mouth. Athos and Rochefort had been out hunting the necromancer all day. As evening drew nearer, the anticipation of yet more walking dead stirred restlessly among them. Half the regiment was sent to guard the palace, along with most of the dragons, so the garrison was quiet.

"I could take Ayelet out," d'Artagnan spoke up. "Do some sweeps of the local cemeteries."

Aramis canted his head in noncommittal agreement. He didn't like the idea of the two of them going out alone, but with Rhaego and Vrita currently with the others at the palace, no one else was available to go with him. He was also worried about Athos being out with Rochefort by himself.

"D'Artagnan," Constance spoke up. "I thought you said Victor had been killed last night."

"That's right," he replied.

"But, isn't that him?"

They all turned to follow her gaze across the yard to where the garrison's back gate stood open, and none other than Victor was shuffling through.

Aramis's blood ran cold—that gate led to the Musketeer cemetery.

Behind Victor, more figures appeared, all swaying and lumbering slovenly into the garrison. One was so disfigured from decay that his features were pitted and unrecognizable, but Aramis knew that uniform, had buried the man in it not six months ago.

"My God, Cornet," he breathed.

"Constance, get out of here," d'Artagnan urged, jumping to his feet and drawing his sword.

Aramis and Porthos followed suit, yet all three of them couldn't help but hesitate. The faces of these attacking corpses, no matter how hideous and deformed, were those of their friends, their brothers. The Musketeer cemetery was full of fallen comrades, all of whom Aramis had known personally.

But the zombies pressed on toward them with unbending intent, and the musketeers were forced to raise their weapons in defense. There was nothing left of their fellow soldiers in these mindless monsters.

Aramis's heart still clenched as he stabbed Victor through the chest. The corpse jerked for a moment, then raised its head and reached past the blade stuck in his sternum to seize Aramis's throat. Aramis reeled back, yanking his blade free. Victor lurched after him.

Porthos swung his schiavona and sent the zombie's head rolling. The rest of the body dropped to the ground, but then to their horror, one hand kept moving, straining and grasping at Porthos's ankle. He scrambled away—right into the path of another walking dead.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan yelled and jumped in to fight off the zombie.

But none of the wounds they inflicted hampered them at all. D'Artagnan ran his sword through the zombie and into the wooden support beam out its back, then staggered back a step as the corpse twisted and contorted like a worm skewered on a hook.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis shouted in warning.

The boy whirled as another zombie came at him from behind when a shot cracked the air. The walking dead dropped to the ground. Beyond him stood Constance, a smoking pistol in hand. But a second later, the corpse simply started getting up again.

D'Artagnan whipped out his main gauche and sprinted toward Constance as more zombies converged on all of them.

The infirmary door swung open and Colbert stumbled out. "What's…" His eyes widened in horror as he trailed off.

Aramis kept slashing at the monster bearing down on him—he had to think of it as inhuman and not his old comrade—and yelled at Colbert, "The bell!"

Colbert spun and hurried to sound the alarm but was intercepted by yet more walking dead. Aramis tried to break away from the one he was engaged in to go help, but the zombie—damn it, _Cornet_ —abruptly grabbed his blade, heedless of the steel cutting into dead flesh, and surged forward, slamming Aramis back into a wall. A rotting arm pressed against his chest, pinning him there.

Aramis struggled to break free of the unyielding grip while around him the others were overwhelmed by the invading forces. But they were helpless against such a foe, unable to kill an enemy that was already dead…


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was dipping toward the horizon and Rochefort was growing impatient. He knew it wasn't easy, tracking magic by scent alone, but Falkor used to be much more efficient than this. Before his imprisonment, that is.

When the dragon turned to glide down for yet another landing, Rochefort had to clench his fingers around the saddle horn and bite back his frustration from erupting.

Falkor set down outside a small church on the edge of the city, a quaint little property with a garden and a parish graveyard in the back. But instead of slouching where he stood to catch his breath, Falkor's attention was fixed on the chapel. Athos's dragon landed next to him and the two exchanged a series of wordless head nods.

Rochefort straightened. "Is this it?"

Falkor bobbed his head.

At last. Rochefort swung down from the saddle, his hand going to rest on the hilt of his sword.

"We should check the back," Athos said, eyes trained toward the direction of the cemetery.

"We're here for the necromancer, not the puppets," Rochefort replied.

He had just taken a step toward the chapel when the sound of a distant alarm bell started to echo from across the city. For a split moment, Rochefort wondered if the palace was, indeed, under attack, and whether the Queen was in danger when he'd promised to protect her…

"The garrison," Athos said, eyes widening. "It's barely manned with most everyone at the palace."

Well, wasn't that a most unfortunate turn of events, Rochefort thought with a smirk. His expression remained neutral, however, as he blandly said, "Go."

Athos hesitated, tossing a torn look at his dragon. But that legendary loyalty won out and he moved to swing back up into the saddle, taking off with the silverback to rush to the aid of his men.

Rochefort let a satisfied smile cross his face. All the better for him to handle the necromancer on his own and claim all the glory.

He turned and headed for the church. Just as he reached the front steps, the door opened and a woman came out, dressed all in black with a lace headdress wrapped over dark tresses. He drew to a stop, hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

"Madame," he greeted tautly. "What brings a woman out here alone so close to dark?"

"My- my husband," she said, snatching the side of her shawl and holding it tighter about herself. "He passed away recently and I came to visit his grave. But I found it had been disturbed so I went to see the priest who oversees this parish about it and…" She cut off and cast a nervous look over her shoulder. "He frightens me," she concluded in a soft, hushed voice.

"Leave," Rochefort commanded, and she hurried past him. He heard the crunch of leaves under her flighty steps as he cautiously entered the chapel.

It was dim inside, not a single candle lit in preparation for nightfall. Rochefort slowly moved down the aisle between the pews toward the altar, and there he found no Catholic offering, but a black shawl draped over a small stand with a ceramic bowl set in the center. A dark viscous unguent rippled like restless water—or blood.

Or perhaps something darker, as around the bowl were symbols made of small bones and sinewy string. An object was floating in the liquid—a fleur-de-lis pendant.

"What are you doing in here?" a sharp voice demanded.

Rochefort surreptitiously drew his dagger as the sound of footsteps stormed up behind him. He spun at the last second, plunging the blade into the priest's chest. The man's eyes blew wide and he choked on a sputtering gasp.

"Putting an end to your evil ways," Rochefort replied and let the body drop. He then turned back to the altar and with a sweep of his arm, sent its contents scattering, thereby destroying the circle of power and its dark spell.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan grunted as he grappled with a faceless, decaying corpse, bony fingers trying to crook themselves around his throat. He'd stabbed the thing at least three times with his parrying dagger but nothing would shake it off. The zombie he'd pinned to the support beam with his sword had finally merely grasped the hilt and yanked the blade out of its own chest. Now it was lumbering toward Constance, who was using a spent pistol to beat back another walking dead assailant.

D'Artagnan struggled to throw off his own foe, but nothing could stop them. He heard Constance scream and saw her get dragged to the ground under two rotting bodies, and he yelled her name in desperation. But neither of his brothers were in any position to help either. Porthos was wrestling with two zombies and using all of his strength to keep his own blade from being turned back onto him. Several feet away, Aramis was also pinned, a sickly green arm pressed firmly into his windpipe as he clawed frantically at it. They'd lost sight of Colbert soon after he'd reached the alarm bell.

D'Artagnan let out a frustrated cry as the stench of death and decay loomed over him.

Then there was a thud and a shriek, and Ayelet came barreling right into the middle of the fight. She sideswiped the corpse wrestling with d'Artagnan, the force of which knocked them both down, but at least d'Artagnan was able to scramble to his feet first. Her wing clipped Porthos and his assailants, sending all three of them to the dirt as well. Her intended target were the two on top of Constance, and she swung her head back and forth like a massive club, throwing them both aside.

D'Artagnan had half a mind to rush to Constance to see if she was hurt, but he saw Aramis turning blue across the yard and bolted for him instead. He body slammed the corpse to knock it to the ground. Aramis sagged with a ragged, gasping cough, and d'Artagnan grabbed his arm to haul him away. They had to retreat, had to get inside and barricade the door…

Ayelet roared and reared up on her hind legs as her belly began to glow with fulvous fire. Yet before she could unleash a raging inferno, all the walking corpses abruptly crumpled to the ground where they stood, like puppets whose strings had been cut. Ayelet faltered, her inner fire remaining at a smolder as she cocked her head in confusion.

No one else moved, unsure if it was some kind of trick. But the bodies weren't moving, weren't even twitching.

A thwack of wings from above had them snapping their gazes up as Savron flew in with Athos. Athos swung out of the saddle, hand on his sword, and looked around in shock and trepidation. Yet it seemed the battle was finally over.

Ayelet sat back down and snuffed out her flame with a gurgle. D'Artagnan turned and ran to Constance, looking her over intently first before throwing his arms around her and holding her close. She clung to him in return.

Athos roved his gaze over them. "Are you hurt?"

Aramis shook his head, even as he rubbed at his throat. "You found the necromancer?" he asked hoarsely.

"No, but we were close. Rochefort must have found them and put a stop to their magic."

"Oh great," Porthos grumbled. "Like we need to owe that weasel our lives."

D'Artagnan was honestly too shellshocked to care about that right now. He held tightly to his wife, tucking her head under his chin to shield her from the sight all around them. For the carnage they stood in the midst of wasn't some battlefield of enemies, but the rotting corpses of old friends.

.o.0.o.

The task of reburying their dead was a heavy one, both figuratively and literally. Athos's back ached, and sweat dampened his hair and the bandana he wore over his mouth and nose. Every member of the regiment was present, all having donned masks and gloves as they handled the remains in various states of decay. It was sickening work. Each of these men had been buried once already, their bodies laid to rest with the respect deserving them and their commitment to France.

Now their graves and remains had been desecrated, used to attack the Musketeers in a most vile way that left no one unscathed by it. Every man who had been at the garrison last night looked haunted by what they'd been through, but so did those who'd been at the palace and had come home to see the aftermath of the atrocity in their own backyard. They had all been violated.

Athos hoped laying their brethren to rest again would provide some solace…but it wasn't doing much for him, if he was honest. For one thing, many of the remains were so decomposed that they weren't easily identifiable, and the last thing any of them wanted to do was just throw them back into whatever open grave was available. Sorting out who went where was also taxing…

Athos saw d'Artagnan standing over one of the bodies in the line that had yet to be interred, simply staring at it. He walked over and put a hand on the young Gascon's shoulder.

"Joubert," d'Artagnan finally said, voice choked up. "I recognize that pin."

Athos swallowed bile as he looked down at the featureless remains and threaded clothing. The pewter ship pin d'Artagnan spoke of was the only distinguishing thing about him.

Steeling himself, Athos moved to take the top half. "Come on," he said.

D'Artagnan grabbed the legs, and together they carried Joubert's remains back to the right grave and settled him back into the busted coffin. That was one thing they couldn't fix, as it would take far too long to dig up the old, broken caskets and put new ones in. All they could do was shovel dirt back over the grave and pack it down.

D'Artagnan straightened when they finished that hole and leaned heavily against his shovel. "I'm glad Rochefort killed the necromancer," he said softly. "I don't even care if the King is having a feast in his honor."

Athos didn't say anything. As much as he despised Rochefort, the man had been the one to stop the necromancer. The praise was his in this instance.

D'Artagnan's eyes watered. "This was just…" He broke off and looked away. Around them, their fellow musketeers moved in and out with bodies and shovels.

"It was sadistic," Athos finished. "And personal."

Let Rochefort bask in his glory before the King. It was better the Musketeers have space to deal with their trauma and grief.

After a couple more hours, all of their dead were finally laid to rest where they belonged. All that was left to do was clean up the tools and then they would all gather to pay their respects to their abused brothers. Athos sent someone to fetch Treville, as he knew their former captain would want to be there.

The musketeers, masks and gloves removed, took up position at the edge of the graveyard. Jean and Constance were there as well, and the dragons were lined up out in the nearby field.

When Treville arrived, Athos was surprised to see he wasn't alone, but with the King and Queen as well.

"Your Majesties," Athos said, bowing deeply.

"Athos," Louis replied solemnly. He roved his gaze around the cemetery, and there was a nervous look in his eye like a rabbit poised to flee.

The Queen slipped her arm into his, a gentle, almost grounding touch. "When your messenger informed Treville you were preparing a service for these poor souls, I thought it only fitting the King and I should be present. After all, each and every one of these musketeers died serving us."

"That is very gracious of you, Your Majesty," Athos replied and stepped away so the royal pair could take center position at the gathering. He noticed Rochefort lingering in the back looking very put-out at being there, and Athos realized the King and Queen must have concluded the Comte's celebratory feast in order to come down here.

Aramis was standing before everyone, his Bible and rosary in hand. "'Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death,'" he recited, then paused, gaze turning troubled for a moment. "After an experience such as this, it's difficult not to question the sacred text." He gestured to the freshly covered graves. "When peace can be so violently disturbed. But though our brothers have been ill used, we can take comfort in knowing their souls still reside with God. There is nothing in Heaven or Earth that can tear them from His bosom."

A few "amen"s murmured through the assembly. Athos wasn't religious, but even he found solace in the sentiment—and hoped it was true.

When it appeared Aramis was done, Anne slipped her hand into Louis's and gave a subtle squeeze.

The King cleared his throat. "Profound words, Aramis, thank you. These are trying times," he addressed to the rest of them. "We must band together if we are to see them through, and I have faith in each and every one of my brave, loyal musketeers."

There was a ripple of nods and pleased hums. Rochefort looked like he'd bit into a lime.

At the end of the service, everyone bowed as the King and Queen took their leave first. Treville caught Athos's eye and gave him a stout nod, an affirmation of what they all knew.

They were Musketeers.

They would endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> The Musketeers are tasked with collecting the merchant Bonnaire and escorting him to Paris, but a host of disgruntled parties on their tail complicates things. Meanwhile, Athos is plagued by the ghost of his dead brother.


End file.
